Messed Up Chemistry and Other Stories
by KylaRyan
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles about the relationship between Watson and Holmes, and how it affects the lives of those around them. Mostly slash-free!
1. Messed Up Chemistry

**Title: **Messed Up Chemistry  
**Prompts:** Watson's Woes Table 2-#33 Destroy

Watson looked up from the novel he'd been reading, distracted by the violent swearing of his odd flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. He was impressed--in a horrified sort of way--at the man's language.  
_Language that would make a sailor blush_, he thought to himself, before he asked, "Holmes, whatever is the matter?"  
"This stuff is supposed to be an acid, and it's acting like a base," Holmes replied. "It seems that--dear Lord, that's interesting."  
Curiousity got the better of Watson, as he abandoned his novel to see what Holmes was up to now.  
Five seconds later, he regretted his decision, as with a great BOOM! the chemicals Holmes had been mucking about with exploded right in his face.  
Pain raced along his skin in electric arcs, as the chemicals burned into his flesh.  
"Holmes," he panted, trying to speak thru the pain. "You need to flush the chemicals out of my eyes."  
With a growl that sounded suspuciously like "I know that", Holmes grabbed a dropper and filled with it water.  
With the gentleness of a man handling fragile china, Holmes flushed the chemicals out of Watson's eyes, and cleaned his face as well.  
"Now you need to--" Watson began, but this time, Holmes interupted him.  
"I know how to handle chemical burns, Doctor, so please, be a patient patient," he growled, hoping that his choice of words would distract the man from his injuries.  
"'Patient patient'? I mean, really, Holmes, where did that come from?"  
Unfortunately, it worked too well...and Holmes was forced to knock Watson out to get him to shut up long enough to get some rest.  
"I don't knew morphrine, H'mes, th' pain issn't that bad," Watson said sleepily as the morphine kicked in


	2. Dark Memories of a Vacation Resort

Title: Dark Memories of a Vacation Resort

Warnings: Spoilers for FINA, EMPT, and STUD (most of the dialogue is directly quoted from these stories); All Bolding Removed due to Technical Issues.

Watson wiped the sweat from his brow with an already sweat-soaked sleeve. Amazingly, it was even hotter today then it had been yesterday, he didn't even need to look at the thermometer to know that.  
He just _loved_ tending to wounded soldiers in a desert.

* * *

Watson looked up in surprise to see his friend, who had the look of an invalid prematurely out of bed.  
"Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely," Holmes said, seeing the concern in the doctor's hazel gaze, "I have been a little pressed of late. Have you any objection to my closing your shutters?"  
Watson only watched in silence as the detective carefully closed the shutters of his consulting-room.  
"You are afraid of something?" he finally asked.

* * *

"Doctor Watson?" the orderly called hesitantly.  
"Yes, Murray?" Watson replied.  
"We just got orders to move," Murray said, "Seems the actual fighting is starting to get too close to us."  
The thunder of enemy artillery just a few short miles distant added emphasis to the orderly's words.

* * *

Watson raced back to the Englischer Hof, answering the summon for his skills.  
"Well," he asked Steiler, once he had gotten his breath back. "I trust that she is no  
worse?"  
Steiler's surprise at his question sent fear deep into the doctor's heart.  
"You did not write this?" Watson demanded, pulling the letter from his pocket. "There is no sick Englishwoman in the hotel?"  
"Certainly not!" Steiler cried. "But it has the hotel mark upon it! Ha, it must have been written by that tall Englishman who came in after you had gone. He said--"  
But the fear in Watson's heart moved him to act, and he turned and ran back from whence he came, praying that he would not be too late.

* * *

The order to move came too late to get everyone to safety, as things often are in war.  
A tall, hawk-nosed orderly beside Watson cried out in pain as a bullet shattered his knee cap.  
"House!" Watson exclaimed, catching the swooning orderly in his arms. "We need a stretcher over here!"  
Murray and another orderly, Wilson, soon arrived with a stretcher for the wounded orderly. Together, the three men lifted House onto the stretcher.  
The next thing Watson knew, he was on the ground, a bullet in his shoulder, and Murray shouting his name.

* * *

When Watson finally reached the spot where he had last seen Sherlock Holmes, the sick fear in his heart grew as the glint of his friend's silver cigarette case caught his attention. Closer inspection revealed that it was holding down a letter.  
A letter addressed to him in his friend's strong hand.  
_MY DEAR WATSON:  
I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our move-ments. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed "Moriarty." I made every disposition of my property before leaving England and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow.  
Very sincerely yours,  
SHERLOCK HOLMES._

* * *

Watson had decided that somehow, he would find less expensive lodgings here in London. It was while he was at the Criterion Bar that he met someone who could help him out--young Stamford, who had been a dresser under him during his time at St. Bart's. In his happiness of seeing a friendly face in London, Watson invited Stamford to lunch with him at the Holborn, and they headed off together in a hansom.  
"Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?" Stamford asked in open wonder. "You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut."  
Watson briefly recounted his adventures in Afghanistan.  
"Poor devil!" he said sympathetically once Watson had finished. "What are you up to now?"  
"Looking for lodgings," he replied. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price."  
"That's a strange thing," Stamford remarked. "You are the second man today that has used that expression to me."  
"And who was the first?" Watson asked, an idea beginning to form in his mind.  
"A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse."  
"By Jove!" Watson exclaimed, his idea becoming concrete. "If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone."  
"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," Stamford said, looking at Watson over his wine glass. "Perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."  
"Why, what is there against him?"  
"Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas -- an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough."  
"A medical student, I suppose?"  
"No -- I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors."  
"Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" Watson wondered.  
"No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."  
"I should like to meet him," Watson said, his mind now made up. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?"  
"He is sure to be at the laboratory," Stamford replied. "He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together after luncheon."  
"Certainly," Watson said, before the conversation drifted to less important things.

* * *

Watson was a bit annoyed when his maid entered his study to inform him that he had a visitor. His annoyance quickly morphed into surprise when he saw that his visitor was none other than the old book collector he'd bumped into earlier that day.  
"You're surprised to see me, sir," the old man observed in his wizened, old voice.  
Having no reason to lie about it, Watson admitted to being surprised.  
"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."  
"You make too much of a trifle," Watson insisted. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"  
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War -- a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"  
Watson moved to look where the book collector pointed. When he turned back around to face the old man, Sherlock Holmes stood smiling in his place. Watson rose to his feet in shock, before a grey mist swirled in his vision as he fainted from the shock.  
When the mist finally cleared from his vision, he could taste the strong aftertaste of brandy and his collarends had been loosened.  
"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."  
But Watson ignored his words, gripping his arms in disbelief.  
"Holmes! Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"  
"Wait a moment," Holmes said. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."  
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think that you--you of all men--should be standing in my study...Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," Watson conceded. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

* * *

**Afterword by John H. Watson, MD**  
Dear Reader,  
Well it is well known that Americans tend to try my patience with their foolishness, I must concede that one of their heroes, General Robert Lee, to be a wise man, for he once observed that it was a good thing "that war is so terrible--otherwise we would grow too fond of it." And yet it was because of war that I met Sherlock Holmes. If I had not been wounded at Maiwand, I would likely have never met him. He probably would not have survived long enough in his profession to cross paths with Professor Moriarty without me at his side.  
However, it wasn't until recently that it was brought to my attention that I went from one war to another, as it were. I went from tending to wounded soldiers in a war fought in the distant heat of Afghanistan to becoming the biographer and loyal shadow of Sherlock Holmes in the war against injustice, a war fought in the dreary streets of London itself.  
I'd like to write more, but Holmes has just come into my room to inform me that he has received word concerning the whereabouts of a suspect and we must hurry if we are to catch the next train to Cardiff.  
JOHN WATSON


	3. My SoCalled Friend

**Title:** My So-Called Friend  
**Author's Notes: **Features characters from my fanfic series _The Elizabeth Holmes Cases_, however this is more of a fanfic of a fanfic. Random story is random as well.

"Oi tried ta stop 'im, Doctor, but 'e wouldn't listen ta me," moaned Campbell as I entered the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, having just delivered my latest story to the _Strand_.  
"Stop who, Campbell?" I demanded, though I had a pretty good idea who Campbell was talking about.  
"Mister 'Olmes, sir," Evin replied, from where he sat at my desk. "'E found a letter on yer desk tha' bother'd 'im so terribly, an' 'e told us ta take care o' yew while 'e was out."  
My blood ran cold at Evin's words. There was only one letter on my desk that could have caused such a reaction in my friend.  
"Doctor, will 'e really kill 'Olmes if yew don't do as 'e tells yew?" Evin asked, sincerely worried about the detective's well-being.  
"I'm afraid so, Evin," I admitted sadly.  
"Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson hestiantly called my name as she entered the sitting room.  
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" I replied, turning my attention to her.  
"Someone left an envelope on the doorstep just now, and it's addressed to you," she replied, handing me the envelope in question.  
I took the envelope and opened it.  
"Wot it say?" Campbell demanded as I unfolded the letter that had been inside the envelope.  
"Give 'im a mo', Campbell," Evin rebuked the other Irregular. If Holmes hadn't been in danger right then, I would have laughed at the Irregulars' antics.  
"But Oi want ta know wot it says!" Campbell whined.  
"Patience is a virtue, Campbell," Evin pointed out.  
"That's enough, you two," I said, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. "Here's what the letter says:  
_Doctor Watson,  
I am sure that you are already aware that Sherlock Holmes has foolishly run right into my hands, but in case you hadn't figured that out, I have him. If you go to Scotland Yard, I will strangle him. If you go to his dear brother, I will drown him. If you go to anyone not currently in Baker Street at the time you read this letter, I will shoot him. If you fail to do as I tell you to do, I will poison him. If you do as I command you to do, I will not kill him. You can only seek help from your landlady and the two street urchins who are currently with you. If you ever want to see your friend alive, you will have to find him yourself. It shouldn't be too difficult for you...assuming you haven't exaggerated the abilities of your precious Sherlock Holmes._"  
"'E must 'ave someone spyin' on us," Campbell observed, stating the obvious.  
"May Oi see th' letter, Doctor?" Evin asked thoughtfully.  
"Certainly," I said, handing him the letter.  
Evin immediately began to inspect the letter closely, just like he had probably seen Holmes do in the past.  
It wasn't long before he brightened.  
"Oi know where 'e's got Mister 'Olmes!" Evin exclaimed.  
"Where?" I asked, curious as to what Evin had seen that I had not.  
"Camden 'Ouse," Evin said with a shiver. "Oi'd know tha' smell anywhere, 'specially since Mister 'Olmes made me spend a whole night in tha' place ta cure me o' my fear o' ghosts."  
'Mister 'Olmes' was going to hear from me about that, as soon as I had him back safe and sound.

* * *

Camden House was as gloomy as I remembered it.  
"Watson!" a highly displeased Holmes cried my name. I stepped forward, to run to his side and make sure he wasn't dying.  
Unfortunately, I stepped on a section of the floor that had rotted clean thru...

* * *

"Campbell, go get Mister 'Olmes. 'E'll want ta know tha' th' Doctor's awake," Evin's voice commanded from some where in the blackness beyond my closed eyes.  
"'kay, Evin," Campbell replied, before scampering off.  
"Doctor, Oi know yer awake," Evin remarked, turning his attention to me.  
I opened my eyes to find the lad's face mere inches away from mine.  
"Campbell's gone ta get Mister 'Olmes back from th' Yard, Doctor," Evin explained.  
"Why is Mister Holmes at Scotland Yard?" I asked.  
"Ta make sure tha' th' man tha' 'ad abduct'd 'im didn't do anything more ta 'arm yew," Evin explained. "Yew already 'ad a mild concussion an' yer tibia 'ad a compound fracture. Mister 'Olmes didn't want yew gettin' anymore 'urt, an' 'e didn't trust Inspector Gregson ta do th' job 'imself."  
That was when I realised that my leg was in a cast.  
"Who decided I had a concussion?" I asked.  
"Th' man who abducted Mister 'Olmes," Evin replied. "Mister 'Olmes figured out tha' 'e was a doctor who'd work'd with yew durin' the War, an' told 'im tha' if yew died, 'e'd 'ave 'im 'ung fer murder."  
Holmes burst thru the door of my room before I could reply.  
"Watson!" he exclaimed, and if he were a woman, he probably would have hugged me. As it was, his cry made my head throb. So did his cry of surprised pain when Evin elbowed him for being so loud.  
"This is sick-room!" Evin growled at Holmes, his accent changing from its usual Cockney to...Russian? Apparently, I wasn't the only one who heard the shift in accent, for Holmes raised an eyebrow.  
Evin blushed, mumbling about how he had found Doctor Zelenka's accent very interesting.  
"You have quite the talent for acting, Evin," Holmes remarked.  
"Oi do?" Evin asked, a bit too quickly.  
If Holmes noticed anything odd, he didn't let on that he had. Instead, he simply nodded.  
"Do yew think Oi could borrow yer make-up ta 'elp yew on yer cases?" Evin asked eagerly.  
"Perhaps," Holmes replied. "If you can make sure the good doctor here stays in bed for at least a week."


	4. Ink on His Hands

**Title:** Ink on His Hands  
**Character(s):** J. Watson, S. Holmes  
**Warnings:** KR!Fluff, Medically Descriptive  
**Author's Notes:** While researching Victorian Era heart attack treatment for a plot bunny, I came across a more amusing 'disease', which spiralled into this story, and a companion fic, "On the other side".

I put down my violin, having noticed that Watson had stopped writing and was staring at his hand in bemused surprise.  
"Something wrong, Watson?" I asked.  
"My hand...I can't let go of the pen," Watson replied, the first tinges of panic just barely audible in his voice.  
"Can you move your arm?"  
In answer, Watson moved his right arm so that I could get a better look at his stiffened hand.  
"Looks like writer's cramp," I remarked, earning a glare from Watson. "I just know what the condition looks like, you're the one who going to have to come up with a treatment for it."  
"Writer's cramp is a type of paralysis, Holmes," Watson grumbled. "In this case, it probably was caused by all the writing I've been doing of lately."  
"So, what should I do?"  
"You?"  
"You seriously don't expect me to let you deal with this on your own, Watson," I observed. "You can't even unclench your right hand enough to let go of your pen right now."  
Watson had to admit that I had a point there.  
"Well, I'll need your help mixing up the pills I'll have to take," he said.  
"What do I need to do?" I immediately asked, eager to help him.  
Watson glanced at the pen, still clutched in his right hand, and he had an idea.  
"I'll write the prescription down for you and you go to the chemist's and have them mix it up for us," he said as he did just that on the back of an envelope.  
_Half a grain of sulphate of strychnia  
30 grains of reduced iron  
8 grains of extract of belladonna  
Mix together and make thirty pills._(1)  
When he had finished writing this, he handed me the envelope.  
"Strychnine? Belladona?" I asked, frowning at the ingredient list.  
"They both possess benefits when used in small amounts, Holmes," Watson pointed out. "Now go to the chemist's before they close for the day."  


* * *

_The Following Morning_  
"How's your hand doing, Watson?" I asked thru the closed door of Watson's bedroom. Getting no reply, not even a grumble about the early hour, I opened the door.  
"Good Lord, Watson!" I cried out at the sight of my Watson convulsing violently on the floor.  
_Make sure I don't hit my head on anything_, Watson's voice directed me.  
Having no idea what else to do, I listened to the voice in my head and moved Watson's bed away from him, before using his pillow to keep his head from striking against the hard floor any more for the reminding duration of his convulsion.  
As I yelled for our landlady, Watson's limbs finally stilled, his convulsion finally at an end--at least for the time being.  
"Whatever is the matter, Mister Holmes?"  
"I need some warm water, mustard, and a pot of strong coffee(2)," I commanded her, as I took my handkerchief out of my pocket.  
Filling it with charcoal from Watson's fire(3)--thankful that he insisted on keeping his room warm with a wood fire--, I pounded the the filled handkerchief on the floor as hard as I could. Once I had pounded the charcoal into a fine black powder, I force fed it to Watson.  
I winced as he gagged on the foul-tasting powder, but I knew it was for his own good. Repeating that over and over didn't make it sound any more convincing though.  
Mrs. Hudson returned with the warm water and mustard, before leaving once again to get the strong coffee.  
I mixed the warm water and the mustard together, and helped my half-conscious friend to drink the disgusting mixture. I tickled his throat until I was rewarded with Watson vomiting right into my lap--my own fault for not moving out of the way fast enough.  
"H'mes?"  
"Yes, Watson?" I asked, hoping he wasn't awake enough to realise that I was holding him in my arms with fresh vomit soaking thru my trousers and his nightshirt.  
"S'rry about bein' sick on you," he said softly.  
"It wasn't your fault, Watson, I was trying to make you vomit," I immediately replied, as Mrs. Hudson quietly placed the coffee on Watson's night stand and left the room. "Now let's get you cleaned up and get some coffee into you."  
"Coffee?"  
"You obviously don't remember the charcoal and mustard water I gave you," I muttered good natured-ly.  
"You?" Watson asked, surprised.  
"You were convulsing, the first thing I thought was that you had been poisoned by the strychnine."  
"Luckily you were right," Watson replied, reaching out with his right hand for his bed to pull himself back up to his feet.  
"Here, let me help you," I said, knowing that with his hand still paralyzed, he wouldn't be able to get up on his own, let alone clean and dress himself.  
With a slight, annoyed sigh, he allowed me to help him to his feet, clean the vomit off of him, and change into clean clothes.  
I left him drinking a cup of the strong coffee with his left hand to clean myself up and change into clean clothes. When I returned, Watson was staring moodily into his cup--he'd refilled it, I could tell.  
"Watson, I was reading some of your medical texts last night, and--"  
"I don't want any more of your help, Holmes," Watson interrupted me. "I've put you thru too much already as it is."  
"Watson, I've put you thru worse, and probably will continue to do so until the last," I admitted, determined that Watson would not go thru this without me every step of the way.  
He snorted at this, clearly agreeing with me.  
"But you are not a doctor, Holmes. You can't--" he began, but I figured that I would get back at him for interrupting me.  
"I may not be a doctor, Watson, but I have lived with one long enough to have picked up a few things," I said.  
"Including his books," he muttered softly.  
I gave him an innocent look as I agreed, "Including his books."  
We sat in silence for a while, before Watson finally broke it.  
"Well, Holmes, what did you find out?" he demanded of me.  
"I read about massaging the paralyzed muscles," I began, a bit uncertain about how to continue--a feeling I rarely experienced. Thankfully, Watson knew me well enough to figure out what I was trying to say.  
"It would help," he said. "Anything else?"  
"An electrical shock, but I think that's a bit drastic in your case."  
"Thank you, Doctor Holmes."

(1) Actual prescription for writer's cramp.  
(2) The prescribed treatment for strychnine poisoning in the Victorian Age was the adminstration of large quantities of finely powdered charcoal, followed by the inducing of vomiting by by tickling the throat and by the administration of mustard in warm water, with a chaser of strong coffee.  
(3) I am pretty sure that they still built fireplaces in every room in the Victorian Age.


	5. On the other side

**Title:** On the other side  
**Character(s):** J. Watson, S. Holmes  
**Warnings:** KR!Fluff, Medically Descriptive  
**Author's Notes:** Companion fic to "Ink on his Hands".

I was vaguely aware of Holmes putting down his violin, but I was more concerned with a more personal problem--the muscles of my hand had become paralyzed, leaving me unable to let go of my pen.  
"Something wrong, Watson?" my friend asked.  
"My hand...I can't let go of the pen," I replied, cursing the slight panic that had seeped into my voice.  
"Can you move your arm?"  
I moved my arm so that he could get a better look at my stiffened hand, figuring that it would be easier to just give him my arm than to explain what I figured was going on with it.  
"Looks like writer's cramp," he observed. I glared at him, I knew exactly what I had, I didn't need him challenging my abilities as a doctor. "I just know what the condition looks like, you're the one who going to have to come up with a treatment for it."  
"Writer's cramp is a type of paralysis, Holmes," I grumbled, not at all happy with my current predicament. "In this case, it probably was caused by all the writing I've been doing of lately."  
"So, what should I do?"  
"You?" I asked, completely caught off-guard by his interest in helping me.  
"You seriously don't expect me to let you deal with this on your own, Watson. You can't even unclench your right hand enough to let go of your pen right now."  
He was right, of course--especially since I could not mix the pills I would need to treat my condition.  
"Well, I'll need your help mixing up the pills I'll have to take."  
"What do I need to do?" I had never before seen Holmes so eager to do anything for me, and the idea warmed my heart.  
I eyed my pen, still in my hand, when I had an idea.  
"I'll write the prescription down for you and you go to the chemist's and have them mix it up for us," I directed him, as I wrote down what I needed mixed up on the back of an envelope.  
_Half a grain of sulphate of strychnia  
30 grains of reduced iron  
8 grains of extract of belladonna  
Mix together and make thirty pills._  
As soon as I finished, I handed him the envelope.  
Holmes frowned at the ingredient list. I had a good idea why--the man knew his poisons, after all.  
"Strychnine? Belladona?" he questioned.  
"They both possess benefits when used in small amounts, Holmes," I explained. "Now go to the chemist's before they close for the day."

* * *

_Later that evening_  
I took the first dose that evening, before I went to bed. I grimaced at the overly bitter taste of the pill, ignoring the gut feeling that it was too bitter, that perhaps the mixture hadn't been done correctly.

* * *

_The Following Morning_  
I stepped out of bed, and then the next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room, my nightshirt damp with vomit, my head in my friend's lap.  
"H'mes?" I asked, inwardly wincing at how weak I sounded.  
"Yes, Watson?"  
"S'rry about bein' sick on you."  
"It wasn't your fault, Watson, I was trying to make you vomit," Holmes replied. "Now let's get you cleaned up and get some coffee into you."  
"Coffee?"  
"You obviously don't remember the charcoal and mustard water I gave you," he muttered.  
"You?" I was surprised that he would do that for me.  
"You were convulsing, the first thing I thought was that you had been poisoned by the strychnine."  
"Luckily you were right," I replied, reaching out with my right hand for my bed to pull myself up to my feet--I'd forgotten what had gotten me into this mess originally.  
"Here, let me help you," Holmes offered.  
I sighed, but I let him help me out, since it would be much harder for me if I took care of things on my own.  
He left me drinking a cup of coffee to clean and change into clean clothes himself. By the time he returned, I was staring moodily into my second cup of coffee.  
"Watson, I was reading some of your medical texts last night, and--"  
"I don't want any more of your help, Holmes," I interrupted him, not caring that such behavior was rude and out of character for me. "I've put you thru too much already as it is."  
"Watson, I've put you thru worse, and probably will continue to do so until the last," Holmes insisted, clearly unwilling to allow me to order him away from me.  
I snorted as I realized that he'd done the same thing to me several times in the past.  
"But you are not a doctor, Holmes. You can't--" I began, but Holmes interrupted me--I idly wondered if he was being childish and interrupting me because I had just interrupted him moments earlier.  
"I may not be a doctor, Watson, but I have lived with one long enough to have picked up a few things."  
"Including his books," I muttered softly, trying hard not to laugh at the innocent look Holmes gave me at my words.  
"Including his books," he agreed.  
We sat in silence for a while, before I finally broke it.  
"Well, Holmes, what did you find out?" I demanded, unable to wait any longer to hear what he had to say.  
"I read about massaging the paralyzed muscles," he began, clearly uncomfortable with what he was suggesting.  
"It would help," I remarked. "Anything else?"  
"An electrical shock, but I think that's a bit drastic in your case."  
"Thank you, Doctor Holmes."


	6. Destined to Be

**Title:** Destined to Be  
**Author's Notes:** Slightly influenced by the_ Doctor Who_ episode "Turn Left". Some poetic license taken concerning the locations of a certain pair.

**Right (AU)**

_Watson_

I pulled on the reins, bringing the dog cart to a stop at a fork in the road. I had a choice to make, go right or go left.  
If I went left, I would go against the wishes of my parents and become an Army surgeon. If I went right, I would go against my own wishes and become a simple country doctor, taking over the practice of my father's best friend.  
A simple choice to make--right or left?  
With a sigh, I made my choice as I pulled on the reins, directing the horse to take the road I had chosen.

* * *

_Holmes_

I swore as I came to a fork in the road. It wasn't on the map of the area I had committed to memory before taking this case.  
A life hung in the balance, dependent on my choice.  
Right or Left? One meant death, the other life, for my client. But which one was which?  
I prayed to a god I doubted even existed that I took the right one, as I made my choice.  
Moments later, I encountered a man driving a dog cart. The man had an air of sorrow, as though he had lost someone close to him. But surely he would know whether I was going the right way to get help.

* * *

_Watson_

"Excuse me, sir," a voice called, startling me from my black thoughts about the fourth commandment(1). "But is this the way to Pembroke?"  
"It is," I replied, frowning at how short of breath the man was. "Do you need a lift? I'm heading that way myself."  
The man didn't give me a chance to change my mind--not that I would do such a thing, the man did not look well at all--as he immediately jumped into the back of the dog cart.  
"I'm in a bit of hurry," the man admitted. "Doctor Brody in Pembroke is the closest doctor to the farm I'm staying at."  
"You need a doctor?" I asked, then mentally slapped myself in the face. Of course the man needed a doctor, he had practically said as much! I could feel the man's annoyed glare at my obvious question, agreeing with my thoughts.  
I turned around the dog cart, eliciting a cry of confused surprise from my unplanned-for passenger.  
"I'm a doctor," I simply explained.

* * *

_Holmes_

I watched Doctor Watson as he tended to my client, inexperienced hands sewing shut the gaping wound in his thigh.  
'Fresh from medical school,' I concluded to myself. 'But he is certainly a gifted member of the profession.'  
I nearly jumped clean out of my skin when the doctor interrupted my thoughts by _poking_ me in the ribs.  
"Sorry to disturb you, Mister Holmes, but I'm finished here," he informed me.  
Even to this day, I don't know why I asked him to stay with me. But I am glad that he accepted.

**Left (Canon)**

_Watson_

I pulled on the reins, bringing the dog cart to a stop at a fork in the road. I had a choice to make, go right or go left.  
If I went left, I would go against the wishes of my parents and become an Army surgeon. If I went right, I would go against my own wishes and become a simple country doctor, taking over the practice of my father's best friend.  
A simple choice to make--right or left?  
With a sigh, I made my choice as I pulled on the reins, directing the horse to take the road I had chosen.

* * *

_Holmes_

I swore as I came to a fork in the road. It wasn't on the map of the area I had committed to memory before taking this case.  
A life hung in the balance, dependent on my choice.  
Right or Left? One meant death, the other life, for my client. But which one was which?  
I prayed to a god I doubted even existed that I took the right one, as I made my choice.  
Eventually I arrived breathless in the village of Pembroke, and rode in the local doctor's dog cart back to my client's farm.  
The criminal got away, but at least my client survived the encounter.

* * *

_Watson~Christmas Day, 1899_

Holmes, feeling guilty that I had to spend the entire holidays in bed because I had taken a bullet that had been meant for him, offered to tell me about one of his cases from before we met. I jumped on the chance, for he rarely made such an offer without some sort of prodding on my part.  
"Holmes, we nearly crossed paths with each other that day when your client was shot in the thigh," I exclaimed once he had finished recounting the events of the case.  
"I know," Holmes admitted. "If you had chosen to obey the wishes of your father, or if I had taken the wrong route..."  
"Things would have been a whole lot different," I finished.  
Holmes nodded.  
"Do you think you would have been able to tolerate my, um, eccentricities, if you had met me before the war?" he asked.  
"Possibly, Holmes," I replied. "But would you have thought to ask me to return with you to London, a total stranger to you?"  
"In these matters, Watson, the only certainty we have is that nothing is certain(2)," my friend replied. "But I would like to think that I would, and that you would accept the offer of a stranger."  
"A pity we can't find out for sure what would have happened," I remarked.  
"But it does us no good to dwell on such things, my dear Watson," he said as Mrs. Hudson entered my room with a heavy tray.

(1)The Fourth Commandment is "Thou shalt obey thy father and thy mother"...at least it is for Roman Catholics...I'm about 80% certain it is the same for Protestants.  
(2)Holmes is quoting Roman scholar and scientist, Pliny the Elder, here.


	7. Wooly Watsons

**Summary:** Falling asleep on your Watson is not recommended.  
**Author's Notes:** My answer to a challenge made by a friend on livejournal; managed to make fluff harmful to both Watson _and_ Holmes with this one.

"Mary!"  
The concern in my beloved's voice brought me racing into his exam room, to find him pinned underneath the unconscious form of his closest friend.  
"What happened, John?" I exclaimed, carefully helping him to roll the detective off of him without causing any further harm.  
"Holmes came in, complaining of a rash on his chest, but before I could get him to take his clothes off, he collapsed on top of me," he explained, wincing as he tried to move his right arm to check Mr. Holmes for a pulse. The pain was too much for him, pulling his arm back towards his own body. He looked up at me, and our eyes met.  
"What do you need me to do, John?" I asked, seeing the unspoken plea for help in his eyes.  
"First, we need to deal with Holmes, he could be seriously ill," he told me, silently thankful for my help.  
"What about your arm?" I asked, concerned with how painful it was for him to move it.  
"There's no chance that it is life-threatening," he explained. "Do you remember what I taught you about taking vital signs?"  
I nodded. John had taught me basic first aid during our honeymoon, when his friend had managed to interrupt us during a very intimate moment with a knife sticking out of his thigh, the owner of the knife lying unconscious in his arms. He quite enjoyed working with me, and once we had returned from our honeymoon, he continued to train me in the basics of medicine, so that I would be able to assist him if he had any emergency cases come to his practice.  
"Check for a pulse, then listen for his breathing," John directed me, clearly worried about his friend's health.  
Mr. Holmes' pulse was strong and steady, as was his breathing. I relayed my findings to John, who to my amazement, started to laugh.  
Concerned for my husband's mental well-being, I demanded to know what he found so amusing.  
"He's asleep, Mary," John explained. "He probably hasn't had anything close to what he thinks is a good night's rest since he's gotten that new undershirt you bought him to replace the one he ruined as a bandage for his client."  
"He's allergic to wool?" I asked in surprise.  
"He's not allergic to the wool itself, but from where the wool came from. He probably didn't wash it first before putting it on for the first time," he explained to me.  
"Well, now that we know what's wrong with Mister Holmes, we should see to your arm, John," I insisted, but my stubborn husband shook his head.  
"I'll be fine, Mary, it's only a sprain," he insisted.  


* * *

"Your wife is the only person I know who can tell when you've broken something and hiding the fact, besides myself," Mr. Holmes announced when he woke up a few hours later.  
"How'd you figure that out, Holmes?" John demanded.  
"That you've broken something?" his friend asked innocently, though it was quite obvious that he knew exactly what my husband was asking about.  
"I wouldn't even _dream_ of insulting your intelligence with that question, Holmes."  
Even thought I could not see his face from where I stood in the doorway behind him, I was certain that John had rolled his eyes in annoyance.  
"Don't roll your eyes at me, Watson," Mr. Holmes insisted. "I wasn't going to insult _your_ intelligence any more than your own stories do, but your wife glaring at your back _was_ a dead giveaway that the two of you had a fight over your health."


	8. Babysitting

**Summary:** Mary learns just how much Holmes needs her husband...  
**Author's Notes:** Inspired by my ficlet 'Wooly Watsons'.

John leaned forward, about to kiss me, when there was a loud knocking on the door to our hotel room.  
"Watson! I know you're in there! I think I'm about to die!" Sherlock Holmes shouted thru the door before a loud crash rattled it.  
With an annoyed sigh, my John got up and opened the door.  
"Holmes, what in blazes?!" he exclaimed as his friend staggered into the room, cradling a young lad in his arms.  
"His name is Tolkien, Watson, and he was hit on the head," Mr. Holmes simply replied, handing the boy to my husband, before suddenly collapsing on the nearest flat surface that could bear his weight--which happened to be the floor--when his leg could no longer bear his weight.  
I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out in horror at the sight of the knife in his thigh. I turned to face my beloved, to see how best I could help him.  
John was torn between taking care of the boy Mr. Holmes had handed to him and taking care of his friend, I could tell by the expression on his face.  
"Watson, take care of the boy, I can wait," the detective said weakily, trying to hide the great pain he was in.  
"John, I can take care of the lad if you tell me what to do," I offered, seeing my chance.  
He gave me a grateful look before handing the lad over to me.  
"Holmes said he had hit his head, so I want you to check his eyes to see how they respond to light," John directed as I carefully laid the boy down on the sofa we'd been sitting on only moments earlier.  
I heard him bickering with Mr. Holmes as I lifted the boy's eyelids and noted how his pupils reacted quite strongly to the light.  
The boy mumbled something, his voice thick with an odd foreign accent, not the French accent I had expected.  
"You were teaching him how to what!?" John suddenly shouted, startling the partly conscious lad on the sofa.  
"What's your name, young man?" I asked the boy, ignoring the so-called grown men having a fight over the legality of "kidnapping an Irregular and bringing him to France to teach him how to fight with kitchen knives".  
"John Tolkien, ma'am," the boy replied, adding, "Mister Holmes didn't kidnap me, I follow'd him on ta th' Continent."  
"My husband's just concerned about Mister Holmes' well-being, John, don't fret yourself," I said, as John--_my_ John--yelped in surprise as his disagreement with his friend became physical.  
"Boys!" I yelled at them, effectively ending their fight.  
Honestly, babysitting twin two year old boys had to be easier than this--at least the two year old boys were acting their own ages.


	9. Honest Love

******Title:** Honest Love**  
****Author's Notes:** My first attempt at writing character death, using three prompts from the lj comm Watson's Woes. Beware, this contains mild spoilers (technically, the correct term in this case is 'teasers') for the sequel to the sequel to my fic "The Llanfair Adventure", as well as references to canon character death.

_Holmes_  
It had been a difficult autumn day for Watson, I knew it even before he had entered our sitting room that evening.  
Elizabeth, hard at work on some project at her easel(1), didn't even look up as he entered the room, nor did she look up as I got up to help him over to his armchair by the fire.  
His hands were ice cold, I noted with no slight concern.  
"Watson, I must question your medical abilities if you continue to insist on walking home from your practice in this chill," I gently rebuked my friend.  
Haunted hazel eyes met my own grey eyes at my words.  
"I couldn't save her, no one could, Holmes," he whispered suddenly, frightening me for an instant--he didn't have a fever, and yet he spoke in the manner of one caught in the throws of a terrible fever.  
And then I remembered what today was, and it all made sense--today was his late wife's birthday.  
"I'm sure you did the best you could," I said soothingly.  
"I could have done more, I should have been able to see the warning signs before it was too late," he insisted.  
"You're not God, Watson, you're a doctor."  
"And a pathetic one at that."  
"No, you're not pathetic, Watson. You are the best doctor I have ever known," I admitted, sensing that his grief was clouding his ability to observe the obvious. "Any patient that dies under your care dies knowing that every possible option was tried."  
I wanted to cut my tongue out of my mouth for saying that when Watson groaned at my words, fleeing the sitting room for his autumn-chilled bedroom.  
I tried to apologize for my poor chosen (yet well-meant) words, but Watson had locked his bedroom door, and any attempt at gaining access resulted in an angry yell of "Leave me be, Holmes!", so I returned unforgiven to the sitting room.  
"Give 'im some time, Sherlock," Elizabeth remarked as I dropped heavily into my armchair to sulk. She'd finished with her painting while I was upstairs trying to ask Watson for his forgiveness. "'E's feelin' guilty fer fergettin' 'bout today."  
"What do you mean?" I asked her, wondering how she knew more about my friend's present state of mind than I did.  
"'E didn't buy a rose ta place on Mary's grave today, Campbell told me."  
"But surely it can't possibly be something so small as that that's bothering the doctor so badly," I insisted.  
"It's not just tha', Sherlock," Elizabeth agreed. "'E's also startin' ta 'ave a 'ard time o' rememberin' wot she look'd loik before she got ill."  
"Impossible."  
"'E lost th' only photograph o' 'er 'e ever 'ad when tha' arsonist(2) gutt'd 'is practice," Elizabeth sternly reminded me, in a manner quite similar to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.  
"It was only a photograph, not something really important like his journals."  
Elizabeth muttered something that sounded suspiciously a whole lot like "Irene Adler's ex-paramour would beg ta differ" at that, but I wasn't completely sure that I'd heard that, so I pretended not to have heard anything at all. Especially when she said, "Well, yew may not 'ave a need fer photographs o' yer nearest an' dearest, but th' good doctor does, an' Oi've got just th' thing ta 'elp 'im out."  
When she didn't elaborate further on her own, I encouraged her to do so by asking what she had in mind to help Watson out.  
"Oi've paint'd a portrait o' 'im an' Mary," she explained.  
"But you've never met Mrs. Watson," I objected.  
"Love is stronger than Death, Sherlock," Elizabeth replied with a smug grin as she stepped aside so that I could see the painting clearly.  
To my utter amazement, she had indeed painted a portrait of Watson and his late wife, both standing in the exact same poses as they had been standing in for the photographer who had taken the photograph that had been destroyed by fire.  
"How did you--?" I began, but I was too awestruck for words.  
"Oi've seen tha' photograph enough times ta remember 'ow it look'd," she explained. "Do yew think th' doctor will loik it?"  
"Like it? I'm certain that he will _love_ it, Elizabeth!" I exclaimed.  
"Oi'm gonna go an' give it ta 'im now, if tha' is alright wif yew," she declared.

* * *

_Watson_  
After Holmes finally left me alone to deal with my breaking heart, I began to realize that I had behaved rudely to my friend, who had only been trying to help me.  
But before I could get up to apologize to him, and to accept his apologies, there was a knock on my door.  
"Who is it?" I called.  
"It's me, Elizabeth, Doctor," came the reply. "May Oi come in? Oi've got something fer yew."  
I got up to unlock the door, and opened it for her.  
"Certainly, Elizabeth, you may come in," I said, as she entered my room, carrying the canvas she'd been painting when I had come home (she was holding it with care because of the still-wet paint).  
I offered her a seat on the only chair in the room, which she accepted. I sat down on my bed, facing her.  
"You mentioned that you had something for me?" I asked.  
Elizabeth nodded.  
"Oi heard you last night, talkin' in yer sleep," she began.  
I frowned at this, for Elizabeth's room was on the other side of the sitting room from the stairs that led up to my room.  
"Sherlock was out chasin' a lead on 'is latest case last night, an' 'e want'd me ta keep an eye on yew while 'e was gone," she quickly explained. "'E mentioned tha' yew still sometimes 'ad nightmares 'bout yer time in Afghanistan, an' 'e didn't want yew ta 'urt yerself trying ta get ta th' sittin' room if yew end'd up being unable ta get some sleep in yer own bed. 'E claimed tha' if tha' 'appened, Mrs. 'Udson would blame 'im an' raise th' rent as punishment, but Oi could tell 'e was 'onestly concerned 'bout yer well-being."  
I smiled at Elizabeth's explanation, for I knew Holmes well enough to know that he would do such a thing and claim to be doing it to avoid incurring the landlady's wrath.  
"What did you hear me say?" I asked.  
"Oi 'eard yew cryin' out fer Mary, an' yew seemed ta be unable ta remember wot she look'd loik," she admitted. "Oi 'ad an idea as ta 'ow ta fix tha', so Oi painted this fer yew."  
She held out the painting to me, and I nearly fainted in shock at how well Elizabeth had captured Mary's soul, for it was like seeing a ghost, to look at what Elizabeth had made for me.  
"Campbell told me tha' yew didn't buy a rose ta place on 'er grave either, so Oi 'ad 'im do it fer yew," Elizabeth added.  
"How much do I owe you?" I asked. Though I was referring to the rose, she thought I was talking about the painting she had given me.  
"Fer th' painting?" Elizabeth asked, clearly hurt by my question.  
"No, no, Elizabeth," I quickly said. "I mean for the rose."  
Elizabeth smiled at this.  
"Yew owe Sherlock an apology, 'e was only tryin' ta make see th' truth o' things. 'E doesn't much loik it when yew sulk," she replied.  
"He is delusional, after all," I declared with a slight smile.  
Elizabeth snickered.  
"Because 'e seems ta think 'e is th' only person in Baker Street who is allow'd ta sulk?" she guessed.  
I nodded, and we both were hard-pressed to stifle our laughter.  
"Watson! Elizabeth! If you two don't come down right now for dinner, I'll tell Mrs. Hudson your whereabouts!" shouted Holmes from the bottom of the stairs that led to my room.  
At that, we could no longer hold back the flood of laughter and we laughed merrily as Holmes grumbled something about how childish we were behaving, which only served to make us laugh even harder.  
That night, I dreamt of Mary again, but this time, I saw her as she was when we first met, young and beautiful, and most importantly of all, she was healthy.

(1) Elizabeth is a talented painter, and she supplements what Holmes earns from his consulting work and Watson from his practice by selling her paintings and by doing commissions.  
(2) In "Bleakest Hope", an arsonist's fire guts Watson's practice, leaving the building structurally intact but destroying everything inside, including the only photograph of his wife he owns.


	10. Beyond the Grave I

**Title:** Beyond the Grave, Part One: Fright  
**Summary:** Only one person knows where Watson is...and he's in the morgue.  
**Author's Notes**: This part was written for Watson's Woes WWP #18 (fright).

It was dark--too dark. And his shoulders were both brushing up against opposing walls of his prison, his back leaned against a third wall, and his feet were pressed up against the fourth wall, forcing him to bend his knees up against his chest.  
Holmes had better find him quick, before he ran out of air--he was already having a hard time getting enough oxygen into his lungs...

* * *

"Where is he!?" Holmes demanded of the handcuffed man he was holding by the collar.  
"Oi don't know, Oi swear!"  
Someone--probably Lestrade, he figured--put a hand on his shoulder, but Holmes ignored it.  
"Mister Holmes, put the poor man down this instant," Lestrade commanded.  
"But he knows where Wat--" Holmes began, turning to face the inspector.  
"The only man who knows where the doctor is is in the morgue, Mister Holmes," Gregson interrupted. "As you well know it, you were the one who said it."  
Holmes released the thug's collar, before running out of 221b and into the cold, wet rain that had been falling all day, slamming the front door shut behind himself with so much force that the sitting room windows rattled.  
"Can you handle this?" Lestrade asked his colleague, indicating the man gasping for breath on the sitting room floor.  
Gregson nodded.  
"Good, then I'll handle Mister Holmes," Lestrade declared before taking the seventeen steps downstairs at a much more sedate pace compared to Holmes'.  
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was stopped short by Mrs. Hudson.  
"Inspector, could you give this to Mister Holmes?" she asked, holding out Holmes' Inverness.  
"Gladly," Lestrade replied, taking the article of clothing from her.  
As he opened the door, the landlady asked, "Inspector, is the doctor still alive?"  
"For all our sakes, I pray that he is, ma'am."

* * *

"All you're doing is making yourself sick," Lestrade remarked as he sat down beside the amateur detective in the otherwise empty waiting room of Watson's practice. "He wouldn't want you to do that."  
Holmes took a single, sobbing breath, struggling to hide his emotions. Crying in front of anyone was a sign of weakness for him, especially while in the company of Scotland Yard's finest.  
"'E wouldn't want yew ta give up 'ope on findin' 'im, either," added a young voice.  
"What are you doing here, Wiggins?" Holmes asked.  
"Th' inspector 'ere ask'd me ta 'elp 'im find yew," the Irregular replied.  
"You know, Holmes, Wiggins is quite a bright lad," Lestrade remarked. "In fact, on our way here, we had quite a discussion."  
"About?" Holmes demanded impatiently, unable to see the point of what the Inspector was going on about.  
"'Ow we're gonna find th' doctor, o' course, Mister 'Olmes!" exclaimed Wiggins. "Wot else would we be talkin' 'bout?"


	11. Beyond the Grave II

**Title:** Beyond the Grave, Part Two: Costume  
**Summary:** Only one person knows where Watson is...and he's in the morgue.  
**Author's Notes**: This part was written for Watson's Woes WWP #19 (costume), and I completely allowed my mind to fly away with me on this one--the costume is present in a figurative sense. And folks, you are _so_ going to be kicking yourself when you find out where Holmes finds Watson...

"So, how are we going to find him?" Holmes asked, turning his careworn grey gaze on Lestrade.  
"Well, I was thinking that you might be able to deduce where we should start looking for the doctor from Mister Doyle's clothes," the ferret-faced inspector admitted.  
"I doubt that he would have any--" Holmes began to say morosely, but Wiggins rudely interrupted him.  
"But, Mister 'Olmes, 'e still might 'ave some clue fer yew, yew can't be sure o' it until yew take a look!" he exclaimed.  
"The lad's right, you know," Lestrade remarked, earning a glare from his younger colleague.

* * *

When next he opened his eyes, he found that he was enveloped in a darkness even deeper than before. And to his dismay, he was still held captive in a tight, enclosed space, though now he was lying flat on his back. The change in position held little comfort for him, as he was still surrounded by cold, lifeless metal.

* * *

Holmes, Lestrade, and Wiggins stopped by Baker Street (to pick up Gregson and the prisoner) before heading over to New Scotland Yard(1), where they went directly down to the morgue (minus Gregson and the prisoner). Holmes quickly found the drawer where Mister Neill Doyle's body was being held, and pulled it open.  
As soon as he got a good look at the dead man's face, however, his face went pale (well, paler than usual) and would have struck his head on the morgue's hard, cold, stone floor if Lestrade hadn't caught him in time.  
Unable to administer a stiff dose of brandy to the amateur detective--he wasn't about to risk impaling his hand on a sharp object by rifling thru Holmes' pockets to see if he had any brandy on his person--Lestrade settled for a sharp slap.  
Wiggins, curious to see what had affected his employer so badly, sneaked a peek at the lifeless body while the inspector was busy dealing with Holmes, who had regained conciousness and was now insisting that his fainting spell had nothing to do with not consuming anything for the past couple of days except the rare occasional cup of tepid Scotland Yard tea that someone had managed to get him to drink.  
The irregular's yelp of frightened surprise when the "lifeless" body hoarsely whispered for "Holmes" caused Lestrade to turn his head so violently that Holmes briefly wondered if the inspector's head was about to pop off of his neck.  
"'E's not Mister Doyle," whimpered Wiggins, backing away from a sight that he shouldn't be seeing--they didn't keep live people in a morgue.  
Holmes suddenly leapt back to his feet (his head nearly hitting colliding with Lestrade's in the process) in time to catch the malnourished wraith of his friend and biographer as he rolled off of the drawer.

* * *

While the doctor he had summoned to Baker Street before leaving the Yard with the doctor and Wiggins was busy examining Watson in his bedroom, Holmes paced in the sitting room, Wiggins watching him from his perch on Watson's armchair by the fire.  
"There's something bothering me, Wiggins," Holmes finally remarked, turning to face the irregular.  
"Wot?" the irregular asked wide-eyed.  
"How did you know where I was? Did you follow me?"  
Wiggins shook his head.  
"Oi didn't follow yew, Mister 'Olmes," he admitted.  
"Then how did you know where to look for me?"  
"A beautiful lady told me where yew were, an' ta make sure tha' th' Inspector found yew quickly."  
"A beautiful lady?" Holmes asked.  
"Yeah, cor, she was beautiful, Mister 'Olmes. 'Er 'usband sure was one lucky bloke, whoe'er 'e was."  
"What did she look like?"  
"Ta be entirely 'onest, she looked quite a lot loik th' doctor's wife," Wiggins remarked. "Oi'd 'ave sworn tha' th' lady was 'is wife, if she weren't dead an' buried."

* * *

1. After the Metropolitan Police's detective branch was reformed in 1878 as the Criminal Investigation Department (CID), they were moved from their cramped quarters beside Charing Cross at 4 Whitehall Place--Scotland Yard--to more spacious accommodations on the Embankment in 1890. This building then became known as New Scotland Yard, where they remain to this very day.


	12. The Killer's Sister

**Title:** The Killer's Sister  
**Author's Notes:** Written for the Watson's Woes Secret Santa thing. This is in response to my person's first wish: "Lestrade and Watson go on Holiday, just two blokes getting out of the city...Holmes follows for some reason. Jealousy? He thinks they are in danger? You decide...for a twist it could be Lestrade that is targeted." I just let my imagination run wild with this request while I waited for my internet to come back up again.

"Lestrade, are you sure that we are going the right way?" I asked, wincing as I put too much weight on my sprained ankle. At least I _hoped_ that it was only sprained--I hadn't been able to give it a proper inspection when I'd injured it five hours ago after falling into a ditch.  
"I'd ask for directions if I could, Doctor, but I've not seen a single soul since we left Adams' farm this morning," the ferret-faced inspector said defensively.  
"Pity the sheep can't tell us, we've seen plenty of them since then," I grumbled good-naturedly.  
"Or Mister Holmes, he'd be just as helpful," Lestrade admitted.  
I laughed out right at this.  
"What?"  
"Holmes would be just as lost as we are now," I explained.  
"No, I wouldn't have lost the map," interjected a semi-welcome voice from behind. "Or drop it into a puddle."  
"I was more concerned with the well-being of _your_ biographer at the time, Mister Holmes."  
"For once, your bumbling is appreciated, Inspector," Holmes remarked off-handedly.  
"Oh?"  
"Mrs. Adams gave you that map, knowing full well that it had been tampered with."  
"She killed her own son?" I asked incredulously.  
"No, she did not kill him, but she is protecting the real killer--," Holmes explained, but the sound of gunfire drowned out the name of Andrew Adams' murderer.

* * *

_"The doctor says 'e's gonna live, Mister 'Olmes."  
A woman's voice. Mary? But since when did she call Holmes 'Mister 'Olmes'?  
"I heard."  
That voice could only belong to Sherlock Holmes.  
"It won't do either of you any 'arm if you got a proper's night rest and a nice warm meal," the woman remarked.  
"I don't want him to wake up alone," he insisted.  
"'E won't be," she replied. "I'll keep 'im company while you're gone."_

* * *

I opened my eyes to find myself in an unfamillar room--I briefly thought that it was a hospital room, but the absence of the smell of antiseptic that pervaded hospitals discounted that possibility.  
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," a friendly female voice called.  
I turned my head to look at the speaker, a pretty young woman with brilliant red hair that clashed with her solid black woolen dress.  
"Good morning, ma'am," I replied, remembering my manners in the face of my need to find out whether Holmes was alive.  
The woman smiled.  
"Don't worry, Doctor, your idiotic friend is alive and mostly well," she informed me.  
"My idiotic friend?"  
"The Inspector said 'is name was 'Sherlock 'Olmes', but 'e must 'ave been mistaken."  
I was confused by her statement.  
She must have noticed my confusion, because she added, "The man the Inspector said was 'Sherlock 'Olmes' nearly broke 'is neck catching Andy's killer. Apparently, 'e was so focused on catching the man that shot you that 'e didn't see the low branch before it was nearly too late for 'im to duck under it."  
"Miss Moriarty, I'm sure that Doctor Watson would rather hear about the capture of your brother from Mister Holmes himself," a voice called from the doorway. "Though I am glad to hear that you are finally awake, Doctor."  
"Where is Holmes anyways?" I asked, surprised by the absence of my friend.  
"Sound asleep in the other room," Miss Moriarty replied, indicating a closed door to my right. "I do 'ope you do forgive me for going through your bag, Doctor Watson."  
"Depends on why you went through my bag, Miss Moriarty," I replied.  
"I only went through it for some sleeping powder to drug Mister 'Olmes with."  
"Well then, I forgive you for going through my bag, though I do hope that you never take such liberties with another's possessions ever again."  
"Well, as long as you don't get yourself shot by my brother," she replied.  
"**KATHRYN MORGANA MORIARTY! YOU TRICKED ME!**" bellowed an all too famillar voice from behind the door Miss Moriarty had indicated.  
"Sounds like your idiotic friend isn't all that 'appy with me," she observed, completely unperturbed by Holmes' shout. "Want me to let 'im know you're awake, Doctor?"  
"That would be a good idea," I agreed.  
"**SHERLOCK MONTGOMERY HOLMES(1)! JOHN HAMISH WATSON IS AWAKE AND LAUGHING AT YOU!**" she shouted.  
I opened my mouth to point out that I wasn't laughing, but the arrival of my friend prevented me from saying anything.  
"I was so sure that I'd lost you, Watson," he informed me. "You were so still..."  
His voice broke off as he suddenly wrapped his arms around me in a warm hug.  
I winced as his emotional outburst jarred my injured shoulder.  
"You might want to let go of the doctor just a bit, Mister 'Olmes," Miss Moriarty remarked. "I think you're pressing on 'is bandaging."  
Holmes actually blushed at the woman's gentle rebuke, to my and Lestrade's amusement, as he let me go.  
"Sorry, Watson," he mumbled.  
"It's alright, Holmes, I'm sure you didn't intend to harm me," I said.  
"If anyone should be apoligizing, it should be Miss Moriarty's brother for being a poor aim," Lestrade remarked.  
Holmes paled slightly at the inspector's remark, though I was sure that he was taking the remark to mean something different from what Lestrade meant.  
"Jack's a great aim, Inspector," Miss Moriarty replied, jumping to her brother's defense. "At least, as long as 'e 'as 'is glasses."  
As she finishing saying this, she pulled a pair of glasses out of her pocket and handed them to the stunned Inspector.  
"I guess I owe you one, Miss Moriarty," I remarked in response to this latest revelation.  
"As do I," agreed Holmes.  
"Me three," added Lestrade.  
"Well, since you caught my brother before he got around to killing me, I'd like to think that we're all even," the killer's sister declared.  
"Got around to killing you?" Lestrade echo'd.  
"I was a loose thread, a threat to 'is freedom," she explained. "I could, with a slip of my tongue, reveal some vital clue to you, Mister 'Olmes, that would put you on 'is scent. In fact, 'e though that I 'ad done just that when you snuck off after your friends this morning like you did."  
"I did not realise that you were in such a dangerous situation, Miss Moriarty, but you did indeed slip up and give me a vital clue," Holmes remarked.  
"I did?" Miss Moriarty asked in surprise. "When? What did I say?"  
"When you mentioned that Jack Moriarty was only your _half_ brother, that he was from your father's first marriage," my friend explained.  
"I don't see what you mean, Holmes," I remarked, confused by his reply to Miss Moriarty's question.  
"You haven't met Jack, Doctor Watson," Lestrade remarked. "Else you wouldn't have to ask that."  
"Lestrade's right, for once," Holmes agreed. "Jack Moriarty took after his mother, while Miss Moriarty here took after their father."

1. I have no clue where I got the idea that Holmes' middle name was 'Montgomery', but I find the fact that his initials would spell out the acronym for 'Her Majesty's Ship' backwards, so that's why I'm ascribing to this particular middle name for him.


	13. Stille Nacht

**Title:** Stille Nacht  
**Summary:** While a sick Watson waits for Holmes to return from a case on Christmas Eve, a group of carolers come along....  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer(s):** Alfie belongs to KCS.  
**Author's Notes:** Silent Night Web (link can be found in my profile under the resources section) has a lot of interesting information (including Chinese, Swahili, Cheyenne, and Russian translations) related to the Christmas carol, 'Silent Night'.

**Watson**  
I sat in my armchair before the sitting room fireplace, feeling the absence of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, keenly on this night of all nights--and not only because it was Christmas Eve--, when a child's voice rang out in the chilly winter air outside 221b Baker Street, interrupting my morose thoughts.  
_Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!  
Alles schläft; einsam wacht  
Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar.  
Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,  
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!  
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!_  
Before I could even begin to wonder why a caroler would be singing in German, two other children began to sing a duet.  
_Oidhche shàmhach, oidhche naomh,  
Cadal ciùin tha air an t-saogh'l,  
Màiri is Ioseph 'san stàbull fhuar,  
A' freasdal a' phàisd tha àlainn 'na shnuadh,  
An sìth o nèamh 'na shuain,  
An sìth o nèamh 'na shuain._  
First German, now Scottish-Gaelic--what language would be sung next, I idly wondered as a third voice, one that sounded vaguely familiar to me, began to sing.  
_Nozvezh sioul, nozvezh kaer.  
Trouz ebet dre an aer.  
Aze 'barzh ul lochennig paour,  
Ur bugelig kousket-flour,  
Ur bugelig gwan,  
Ur bugelig gwan._  
I didn't even recognize the language being sung this time--but this strange band of carolers was not finished yet, as a strong baritone took up the carol.  
_Nuit bénit, nuit de silence!  
Tout est calme en brilliance  
Autour de la vièrge et son fil,  
Nouveau-né, tendre est il.  
Dors en paix de cieux;  
Dors en paix de cieux._  
If I didn't know better, I would have said that I had just heard Holmes caroling in French.

* * *

**Holmes**  
"It would be doing the doctor a great disservice, Mister Holmes, if you make me sing a single verse of 'Silent Night'," Gregson warned.  
"Nonsense, Inspector," I replied. "I've heard you sing before, and you have a lovely singing voice."  
"I was also drunk at the time," Gregson promptly pointed out. "And as I recall, you were drunk at the time too."  
"Come on, Gregson," Lestrade called from where he stood in the relative shelter of 219 Baker Street's stoop. "Surely you can do better than me."  
Gregson growled, but he could not decline the ferret-faced inspector's challenge, not while he was in my presence.  
"Fine, but I'm not paying for any windows that break as a result of my singing," he grumbled.

* * *

**Watson**  
Just as I thought the carolers had moved on, one of their number began to sing--and to my shock, I recognized the voice as belonging to one of Scotland Yard's finest, Tobias Gregson!  
_Silent night, Holy night;  
All is calm, all is bright;  
'Round yon virgin Mother and Child.  
Holy infant so tender and mild:  
Sleep in heavenly peace,  
Sleep in heavenly peace._  
As the inspector sang, I raced down the stairs and threw open the front door, letting in a rush of freezing air that triggered an exceptionally violent fit of coughing. I was vaguely aware of Holmes' wiry arms supporting me as black spots appeared in my vision.  
"Easy, Watson," my friend commanded through the grey mists that held my mind captive.  
"Holmes?" I called, not opening my eyes.  
A soft rustle of papers, soft footsteps, then Holmes' voice.  
"Watson," he said hesitantly.  
I opened my eyes to find that I was lying on the sofa beneath a thick afghan, with Holmes hovering over me. I blushed as I realised that I must have fainted.  
"Most folks with a fever of 102 stay in bed," he informed me.  
"Most folks don't get Scotland Yard Inspectors to sing 'Silent Night' in Breton, either, Mister Holmes," Lestrade called from somewhere behind Holmes.  
"Excuse me, but you were the only one singing in Breton," Gregson corrected.  
"An' Mister 'Olmes 'ad me singing in German," Alfie pointed out.  
"An' me an' Evin in Gaelic," added Campbell.  
"_Scottish_-Gaelic," Evin immediately corrected him.  
"Same thing," Campbell replied dissmissively.  
"No, it's not!" insisted Evin.  
"Is!"  
"Not!"  
"Is!"  
"Not!"  
"Oi'll tell Mrs. 'Udson who really killed 'er dear plant," Alfie said warningly, effectively ending the disagreement. "Now, Mister 'Olmes, yew mentioned something 'bout presents?"


	14. The Power of Eggnog

**Title: **The Power of Eggnog

**Warning(s):** Alcohol Use, **IM****PLIED SLASH**

**Author's Notes: **A little rough sketch inspired by a prompt posted on the livejournal community holmeswatson09--"Eggnog, mistletoe, and/or another holiday tradition". As this ficlet contains implied slash, don't read it if you don't like slash.

Watson winced as he heard the sound of something large--he hoped it wasn't another body, but he knew his flatmate all too well to hold his breath--fall down the stairs to the sitting room.  
"WASSHUN!" shouted said flatmate, slurring so badly that Watson feared that Holmes had managed to acquire a nasty concussion.  
But when the doctor reached the bottom most step, he found a very drunk Sherlock Holmes being supported by a vexed Inspector Lestrade.  
"Good evening, Doctor Watson," Lestrade said. "I hope you don't mind if I leave you alone to deal with Mister Holmes, as my wife is expecting me to come home at a respectable hour tonight, since it is Christmas Eve and all."  
Taking Holmes' weight from the inspector as he spoke, Watson said, "Not at all, Inspector."  
As Lestrade closed the front door behind him, Watson (with considerable difficulty) led his drunk flatmate up the flight of stairs and deposited him on the sofa.  
"Did you know you could get drunk on eggnog, Wasshun?" Holmes asked, his first words since Lestrade had left Baker Street.  
Not waiting for a reply, Holmes continued, "'Cause I didn't, not 'til tonight anyways. Lestrade an'...uh, some other specter kept givin' me eggnog, an' askin' me why I tolerated you."  
Slightly amused by the detective's words, Watson took advantage of his current state and asked, "And what did you tell them?"  
"I told 'im the truth, o' course. I only tolerate you because you're so good at what you do...whatever it is that you do," Holmes drunkenly replied.


	15. One Measure I

**Title: **One Measure--"Scalpel"

**Warning(s):** None

**Author's Notes: Response to a prompt given me on livejournal--"5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did." Ended up twisting this prompt in ways that it probably shouldn't have been twisted. 1 of 5 in this story arc.**

"Scalpel," Watson called, blindly holding out his hand for the requested instrument.

Unfortunately, his assistant had never handled medical instruments in a morgue before, and he ended up getting his hand sliced open.

The doctor growled a Hindu curse at the pain and at the fact that he could not finish the autopsy, not while his hand continued to bleed. He growled another curse when he saw how unusually pale his flatmate was, the man's eyes fixated on the sight of scarlet blood against a backdrop of nut brown skin.

"Holmes, look at me," he commanded, and for once, Sherlock Holmes obeyed him without objection.

"You're bleeding," the detective observed.

"I've noticed," Watson said dryly.

"I cut you with the scalpel. I hurt you."

"It's nothing that a couple of stitches can't cure, Holmes, don't worry about it," Watson replied. "What I am worried about is you. You're paler than the corpse."


	16. One Measure II

**Title: **One Measure--"Pistol"

**Warning(s): Reference to past drug abuse, Kinda Short**

**Author's Notes: Response to a prompt given me on livejournal--"5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did." Ended up twisting this prompt in ways that it probably shouldn't have been twisted. 2 of 5 in this story arc.**

Watson sighed as he entered the sitting room to find the atmosphere rank with the sharp tang of spent gunpowder.

While he was thankful that Holmes wasn't using cocaine any more, he did wish that the detective could have come up with a better alternative to the drug than to turn the sitting room into the actual war zone it resembled.

And then the doctor saw today's casualties, and he was not at all pleased to discover that Holmes had used Watson's desk for target practice.


	17. One Measure III

**Title: **One Measure--"Disguises (Make-up and Costume)"

**Warning(s): Kinda Short.**

**Author's Notes: Response to a prompt given me on livejournal--"5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did." Ended up twisting this prompt in ways that it probably shouldn't have been twisted. 3 of 5 in this story arc.**

In retrospect, dressing up as the neighboring squire's youngest daughter to trick his older brother into thinking that said squire's daughter had fallen in love with him was not quite the brilliant idea it had appeared to be, young Sherlock decided as his mother gleefully regaled her gaggle of friends with the story.

If this was all his acting abilities were going to earn him, the shrill laughter of gossiping women, well, then he was most certain not going to pursue theater any further.

Not unless someone convinced him to believe otherwise...


	18. One Measure IV

**Title: **One Measure--"Police Whistle"

**Warning(s): Kinda Short**

**Author's Notes: Response to a prompt given me on livejournal--"5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did." Ended up twisting this prompt in ways that it probably shouldn't have been twisted. 4 of 5 in this story arc.**

"Holmes, may I ask you something?" Watson asked one cozy autumn evening.

"Certainly, my fellow, ask away," Holmes replied.

"Why didn't you join Scotland Yard when you first came to London? Why set yourself up as a consultant, without anyone to watch your back in this dangerous line of work? And don't say it's because you don't want the credit for catching the villain, because that can't possibly be the only reason."

"Well, Watson, it's also because I absolutely loathe wearing a police whistle around my neck every day."

"Really, Holmes?" Watson asked, not quite believing his ears, though Holmes' claim was most certainly plausible.

"Yes, really, Watson," the detective replied. "You know how I am about things around my neck, after all."


	19. One Measure V

**Title: **One Measure--"Magnifying Glass"

**Warning(s): Kinda Short**

**Author's Notes: Response to a prompt given me on livejournal--"5 instruments Holmes could have learned to play and 1 he did." Ended up twisting this prompt in ways that it probably shouldn't have been twisted. 5 of 5 in this story arc.**

"Watson!" Holmes shouted from below.

"What is it, Holmes?" Watson shouted back, quite annoyed with his flatmate now.

"Have you seen my magnifying glass? It's not in my pocket," the detective replied.

Watson wondered how Holmes could possibly find anything at all in the jumbled mess that filled his pockets.

He refrained from commenting on that, however, instead asking whether it might be possible that Holmes had left it on the doctor's desk yet again.

"What a ridiculous notion, Watson," the detective immediately declared.

Watson rolled his eyes, as he had spotted the glint of the afternoon sun reflecting off of the magnifying glass, from where it lay right out in the open, on his desk.


	20. Learning

**Title: **Learning

**Warning(s): Kinda Short**

**Author's Notes: A scrap I found today.**

"Holmes."  
"Yes, Watson?"  
"I thought you didn't read anything unless it pertained to your work."  
"You are correct."  
"Then why are you reading 'The White Company'?"  
"Research."  
"Research?"  
"Mycroft wants to use this book to create a new cipher to communicate sensitive messages to me while I am away on that murder I mentioned to you this morning."


End file.
